Strength
by poisonivy9675
Summary: Shizuo Heiwajima has a secret that almost nobody knows. He is actually a she! With her strength, she knew she would be made fun of even more as a girl than a boy, so she had decided to pretend. But there is one other thing. She has a dangerous past. Has she truly escaped it? Will Izaya Orihara ensure that she doesn't? Or will he help her for once instead of antagonizing her?


A/N: This is finally my own story! Yes, you got that right, this was written by poisonivy9675 herself! Please enjoy.

 **A Child**

Darkness. Pain. Anger. Death. Sorrow. Terror.

I'm scared. Not of the pain. Not of the death. Not of those who seek my life. I'm scared of myself.

My strength is monstrous, my temper uncontrollable. One object after another flies towards terrified captors. Bench. Lamp. Tree. Car.

His eyes find me, glowing coals ready to turn me to ash. I cannot meet the fire. I cannot look to find the fear I know will be on his face. I do not know why he has not run. I do not know why he stays. I do not know.

I do not know anything anymore.

Arms wrap around my shuddering body in what I imagine for less than a second to be a hug. But they are only holding my arms down at my sides, only restricting them from throwing more objects, from killing and injuring continuously. I know this. This is the one thing that always remains in my mind after every episode. He has always stayed to stop me.

A whistling sounds through the air, a noise I recognize immediately. Many a time has the speeding bullet pierced my body mercilessly. Many a time have the shooters run when they realize that it has not worked. I can no longer tell when they attempt to kill or simply paralyze. But this time is different. They continue to shoot while he restrains me. They continue to shoot while there is no possible way they can hit me. The arms holding me down fall, limp. My eyes find the coals no longer hot, dampened by a drop of water that slides out. Then the coals disappear, covered by sheets.

My body pounds. Blood pools at my feet. And I know something once more. I know that I will be the only being alive in the lot within mere minutes. I know that when the police finally arrive they will find crushed and torn bodies, and blood washing away into drains, hosed by the rain that the clouds have already begun to drop.

I know that I am completely alone.

I know that my father is dead.

I know that my life will never be the same again.

 **| {~'. '~} |**

I closed my eyes and sat back, my hair snagging on the bricks of the wall I leaned against. A breeze summoned goosebumps to my arms and legs, visible through my tattered clothing if any cared to look. I knew no one would, so I was not particularly bothered by how weak I looked. Sometimes I found it funny that the cold could still affect a monster such as myself. It was strange to think that something so abnormal could be touched by this one mundane thing.

The breeze gradually turned to a harsh wind, warning me of the coming winter. I no longer cared if I would be kept warm, though. I had given up on any comfort in return for the death of my father. I suppose I cannot actually call him my father without him ever having told me, but it was simply what I had dubbed him. He never told me who he was, or anything about himself. But he gave me shelter and food, and stopped my violence when I could not.

Father often told me that he hated violence. When we spoke, which was rare, the topic would usually be limited to that. He taught me in those conversations that violence was always returned once given, almost as if it was an unwelcome gift. Continuing with that metaphor, he would explain that the person having their gift returned would try to give it again, and the cycle would continue until the gift was broken beyond repair. Or, in other words, until one or the other were unable to fight.

I have come to hate violence. I despise it, and how it affects everything. I cannot stand the way humans hold it, the way that they use it. Most of all, though, I hate how my temper subjects myself to the giving end of blows. My strength combined with my anger are unwelcome, but they are not guests that I house within me that I can simply kick out. I cannot even sedate them into a mild manner. Without them, my existence would most certainly be better, but according to Father they are very permanent.

The wind swept through the holes in my clothes, and my skin absorbed the cold with no obejection. I resisted the instinct to rub my arms to soothe away the goosebumps, and instead opened my eyes to adjust to the light once more. My surroundings were a dreary set of neutrally themed buidlings that had reached the age of crumbling slowly with no aim to be fixed. An orphanage three stories tall towered behind me, casting a slight shadow across the roughly cobbled street. A run-down clinic was placed smartly directly across, but its drab appearance and low pay led to its inevitable abandonment. A clothes shop combined with a an apartment for the owner sat in slightly better repair next to the clinic. Adjoining on the other side was a cobbler's humble abode, although I had not seen it open for weeks. I suspected he had either finally moved or died of starvation. Not many come down this street, and even less enter buildings that could contain homeless beggars or runaway criminals. Frankly, I am okay with the state that leaves the street in.

My stomach grumbled and gurgled incontently. The last food I had eaten had been a jam sandwich the afternoon before the last attack came. I had lost track of the days inbetween. Another noise sounded and I stood, wanting to freeze in silence. Behind me the orphanage door opened only to be slammed at, I'm sure, my presence. I was unwanted there, as the staff 'didn't get paid nearly enough to care for the likes of me.' It didn't bother me, as I didn't especially like anyone withn the building anyways.

I walked away from the building down the street with the intent of finding enough food to quiet my unhappy stomach. At the corner I let my feet guide me left, right, right, right, and left, following faint smells that my father told me most could not scent. My hand found the single holeless pocket in my thin, cotton pants, fingering the single physical reminder I had of Father. A foreign coin with a square-like whole in the middle and strange characters was not worth anything in shops, but it could calm me when I had not grown angry enough to forget its existence.

People roamed the street I entered, almost enough to say it was crowded, but none touched me. Their was no shove and a quickly grunted apology this close to where I regularly stayed. The people knew who I was, and left a space for me all along the sidewalk. Many cursed as if a black cat had crossed their path, though I assure you I bear no resemblance to such a creature.

I stopped in a stone tiled sweet shop, as a store selling actual food would be far enough and proper enough to kick me out. The woman behind the counter looked at me with a certain fear in her eyes that almost made me want to laugh. Father had taught me well in my upbringing, and I was very smart, but this lady was scared of a four year-old and showed it plainly. If I wasn't so concerned with searching for anything proper to eat on the shelves, I think I may have either laughed or grown angry. Her opinion of me allowed me to steal with no problem, so I decided to pay her no mind in future meetings.

Outside, I was bitterly reminded of the weather when snow started to accompany the wind. I hugged the stolen goods, a bottle of sweet water and a small box of chocolate bread balls, closely to my chest and stumbled my way back down the streets as my limbs grew frigid. I tripped on the edge of a stone tile that stuck up and was thrown into the street by a man who took the opportunity to push me while I was down and couldn't see his face. The sweet water rolled away and I scrambled to catch it before it found the metal rungs of a sewer drain. I caught it in time and ran in the direction of the empty streets that I lived on.

Upon reaching the brick wall I leaned against earlier, I sank to the ground with a sigh that fogged up the air. Ravenous, I unscrewed the bottle cap and chugged, the sweetened drink dribbling down my chin. I tore apart the box the get to the bread balls, but I forced myself to eat them slowly, my hands once again finding the coin in my pocket. The treat melted on my tongue, but I didn't allow myself to wallow in the ecstasy of the taste. Even if I had, the cold would have quickly convinced me that I was uncomfortable. It was starting to look like the snow would continue and lay its white blanket across the city.

When I finished the food I took up the position I had earlier quit in order to silence my stomach. I leaned my head back against the bricks, ignoring the sharp pulls that told me the wall had snagged a strand of my shoulder-length blond hair. My eyelids fluttered shut once more, and I surrendered my body to the chilly air.

"E-excuse me," a woman's voice called me out of my would-be death sleep.

I looked up, trying to push back thoughts of embarrassment over my appearance. The woman seemed a little younger than Father, and she was shorter, with black hair and tanned skin. What made me stand and answer was her black eyes; for a moments all I could see was her eyes, thinking of Father's.

"Yes?" My voice came out quietly, but I was polite as Father had taught me to be. It may be hard to believe a four year-old can learn so much, and I'm sure most kids my age can't even speak full sentences properly. However it may have happened, I'm "intelligent to a degree others will never compare to," in my father's words.

"Do you- do you..." she tried to form her question but I could tell that she was having trouble finding the words, most probably because English wasn't her main language, judging her tanned skin and heavy accent. The sun doesn't shine enough here to produce such a tan, and our accents are of a different breed. "Are you... Do you live here?" the woman was finally able to voice her inquiry after a moment of thought. I nodded, shifting self-consciously. Every second reminded me mercilessly of the dirt on my face and clothes, of the numerous holes showing white patches of skin. "What is your name?"

This question povided a bit of trouble, seeing as how I didn't have one. It had never been a problem before, 'cause nobody asked my name and Father called me 'child' and 'sweetie.' It was just another thing that I hadn't thought to ask when I had thought we would never be permanently separated. I took a minute to think about my answer before saying, "The staff calls me 'monster,' miss."

A look that I couldn't label passed over the woman's face before she gathered me in a unexpected hug. I didn't savor one moment of it though, waiting for the craftily hid knife that would pierce my side. With such expectations, I was surprised when she not only didn't hurt me but murmured comforting phrases. "I will care for you," was one of them. My eyes widened at this new thought she had presented me with, and I waited for the shattering instant in which she would stand with a nasty grin and admit her joke. That I could handle. I could take the anger, and I would be fine with letting it out after such a cruel play. But she didn't. When she stood, she reached for my hand, walking along with me into the orphanage. With her other hand she pulled a phone out of her coat pocket, and spoke in a different language to the person on the other end. After placing it back in her pocket, she sat with me on the flimsy chairs that were in the front room.

"My husband come," she told me quietly. "He speak English better, and then we adopt you together." At that comment, I finally allowed myself to believe that something good was happening to me, that they would truly care for me. But underlying that joy was the fear that this woman's husband wouldn't like me, that he would say no when he came. My thoughts turned darker and darker and even turning my coin around in my hand didn't calm me. Perhaps I had used it too many times already that day.

A good deal of minutes later, a man entered the building, looking slightly excited. He wore a suit that had a handkerchief of some sort in his breast pocket that matched the kind lady's red dress. "Namiko," he said breathlessly, brown eyes lit up. His gaze shifted to me and I froze in place, terrified for the first time in my life. Once more my suspicions were proved wrong as he took my hand and held it in his own, warming me. The woman hugged us together and I hugged back, letting my eyes close and feel their warmth. I didn't know how such a thing had happened to me, but I took those negative thoughts and threw them away.

The two talked in their language after we parted, and then the man approached the desk to ring the bell. The 'ding' rang throughout the house, and a clicking of heels told of a woman's arrival. When I could see her I clenched my fist, attempting to keep my anger level down. She had a nasty habit of insulting me and my father while I was in hearing range. "What- can I do for you?" Her tone changed from irritated to polite when she spotted the man.

"You can give me the forms to adopt this child." From the man's expression I could tell he had picked up on the more unfavorable side of the lady.

"Certainly." She looked towards me and sneered. "Or, rather, this child does not reside in any home."

"Nonsene," Namiko stood up for me; that was the only thing that stopped me from exploding. "She said she lives here, and I believe her over you."

The gears of the mean woman's head turned as she worked to devise a plan. Contrary to what I thought she would do, which was kick us out, she smiled in a sickly sweet way and asked us to hold on for a minute while she got the necessary paper work. I heard a muffled sound from another room, and a sound of typing. Then there was another muffled noise followed by the lady's clicking heels.

"Just fill these out and you'll be good to go." Her smile made me want to gag, but I held it back for Namiko's sake.

"And her name?" the man asked.

"You have the honor of choosing one as the adoptive parents."

"Fine."

He talked to Namiko in their tongue while he wrote out information on the papers and I leaned against the wall with drooping eyelids. It took long enough that I fell asleep there on that flimsy chair in that terrible place with two amazing strangers adopting me. I slept, and dreamed of warm things and smiling faces. The next time I woke, I was on the man's back, and he was carrying me while walking with Namiko, and they were both smiling at me. With a sense of safety I hadn't ever truly known, I allowed myself to drift back to sleep in comfort.


End file.
